


In A Crowded Room

by synonomy



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance, The Used
Genre: Angst, Drinking, First Time, Jealousy, M/M, Pining, Touring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-27
Updated: 2013-02-27
Packaged: 2017-12-03 15:55:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/699982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/synonomy/pseuds/synonomy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's all just background noise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In A Crowded Room

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: there is a small part in this that could possibly be construed as dubcon.

There's this thing, people say, about exceptions. Frank's heard it before, but nowadays, he mostly just hears Bert waxing poetic about it, now they're on tour together. It goes something like, _sexuality is fluid. You're only straight, until_. Frank's never really bought it before, and he definitely doesn't buy it any more now, coming out of Bert's exceptionally well-traveled mouth.

Touring with The Used is pretty much how you'd expect. There's a lot of beer, a lot of drugs, a lot of falling over, and a lot of doing not very much at all, between going on-stage and crashing in a bunk (it doesn't matter whose). Frank likes it okay most of the time; loves it occasionally, fucking hates it now and then, but Gerard is always, _always_ in his element. Maybe because he's always drunk. Not that Frank thinks that being drunk automatically equals being happy - he stopped trying to convince himself of that bullshit when he was about nineteen - but Gerard drinks like it's _oxygen_.

They're mostly ignoring it, Frank and the rest of Gerard's band. He knows that, but he doesn't know if they're collectively pretending it isn't a problem, or if that's just Frank. Sometimes Frank will be sat with a whole bunch of people and have to find comfort in the fact he knows it isn't a rare feeling, or a unique sentiment - to just feel completely alone, right there. He sings the relevant song lyrics in his head (or out loud, it depends how wasted he is) and sometimes, he feels a little better when people join in.

Most of the time, though, he just goes and finds Mikey. Sometimes, silent company is what you want. Or he reads in his bunk, if he's not too drunk and the words will stay still.

The music helps-- well, it mostly helps to keep reminding himself that the music is the whole point, really. Everything else, all this other shit, is just background noise. But if Frank reads for too long, or trips too often, he starts seeing everything in metaphors. Background noise at sound check, static on a TV channel, road works outside your hotel window; it can ruin everything. He has to laugh at himself when that shit happens, but it makes him wonder if that's how Gerard thinks. Like, all the time. The now-seemingly rare occasions they talk about the music and Gerard nervously (always nervously, every time, fucking twitchy and cagey as anything about handing over that scrappy little notebook no matter how many times he's done it before) shows them what he's been working on, what his mind has vomited onto the paper this time, Frank will read it and _just_ \--

"There's always at least one person," Bert's saying thickly, slouched back in his lawn chair. _Oh_ , Frank thinks. "Or like, everybody has their price, and I'm not even talking for fuckin' _money_ , you know? Just, it only takes like, something - an extreme circumstance, maybe, but _everyone_ has it."

Bert is kind of like a degenerate pirate, or maybe just a shaggy-haired hobo that somehow got through tour security. Bert's the kind of dude that produces twelve lawn chairs out of thin air and stokes a campfire in the middle of a parking lot at two am and gets away with it; that thinks a screwdriver is a suitable breakfast drink and using tobacco in a joint is a waste. He's the kind of dude that gives no fucks whatsoever, that would flip off God himself just because Satan dared him to do it.

Bert is the kind of dude that Gerard loves.

"Man, I don't know," says some tech guy sat a few chairs to the right of Frank, "Ain't no circumstances that would make me wanna suck dick, don't care _how_ extreme they are."

There's some vague murmurings of agreement, but Bert waves his hands in the air, apparently undiscouraged. "No, no, dude, trust me. What about, like, fuckin' prison?"

"You _know_ ," Gerard suddenly pipes up, shoving aimlessly at Bert's shoulder. He's in the chair next to Bert, opposite Frank, hair and limbs everywhere. He's heavy-lidded and slurring his words and he hasn't had a wash for at least a week; these are things Frank knows. What he doesn't know is what his own deal is. Finding out they were going on tour with the fucking _Used_ had felt like the greatest thing imaginable when it happened, but Frank can barely remember that, now. "You know, Bert, you know--"

"Yeah, yeah, I fuckin' know what they do, babe, don't worry," Bert says, grinning at Gerard through lank straggles of hair. "But I'm talking about people who _choose_ to switch teams. Say you're in there for a really fuckin' long time, right, do you just--"

"That's not the same, though!" interrupts a chick with dreadlocks. "I don't think it counts if it's a circumstance like that, like, if it's your only option then it's not really a choice, is it?"

"Bullshit!" Bert hollers, making everyone jump. Gerard collapses into giggles, like a little fucking kid. Frank can barely see him through the blurry heat of the fire and smoke. "You can choose not to fuckin' do anything, right? But you wouldn't, because sex is fuckin' _awesome_. And that's what I'm saying - when your price comes up, you're gonna fuckin' _pay_ it."

There's an eruption of noise as everyone tries to give their opinion. Frank couldn't give less of a shit. He's got six or seven drinks in him that he knew the contents of, and a few more that he didn't, and joints go around the circle like pass the fucking parcel.

"What about you, Frankie?" Bert cuts through the merged voices easily. It's a skill he has, Frank's noticed; when he talks, people shut up and listen. Even if he's talking absolute fucking bullshit. Gerard shares the same trait, which is the only reason Frank recognizes it. "What's your price? Think I got a couple of fuckin' nickels on me, here."

A few people laugh, Bert among them. In Bert's head, Frank's sure, he's harmless. Complicated, talented, fucked up. Kind of like Gerard. But Gerard doesn't wear the same expression on his face when he looks at Bert and when he looks in a mirror. Frank knows - he's seen him do both.

He stands up sharply, knocking over his chair. He was already too close to the fire, and a few rogue embers burn his bare knees thanks to his fucked-up jeans, but Frank doesn't care about that, either. He says, clearly, "Why don't you go fuck yourself, McCracken."

The laughter dies down abruptly. Bert's teeth are still bared, mid-laugh, like someone paused him. "What? Frank, dude, I was just--"

"No," Frank says loudly. "Fuck you." He can't meet Gerard's eyes, can't stand to see the confusion and hurt he knows is there. He grits his teeth, throws the cigarette he wasn't smoking into the fire, and walks away. Someone calls after him, but it's not who Frank wants it to be, so he ignores it. Hell, he'd probably ignore it anyway. He gets back on his bus, and it's quiet, suddenly. Ray and Bob had an early night, he knows, but Mikey is elsewhere. Mikey's always elsewhere, nowadays.

He's too drunk - too angry - to read, so he kicks off his shoes and just gets into his bunk, fully clothed. He feels kind of sick. He can hear, vaguely, the noise of everyone ramping up again, yells and obnoxious laughter drifting through the cracks in the windows. That's the thing that gets Frank, really: everyone seems to have selective memory, except for him. When Gerard talks about wanting to die, Frank remembers it, no matter how trashed he was. When he stumbles upon Gerard jerking off Bert behind his own fucking tour bus, he fucking _remembers_.

But Gerard doesn't.

Frank wakes up and he can hear crying. It's light outside, which means he must have slept, but Frank still feels half fucking drunk. He didn't close his curtain last night, and across the aisle from him, Ray's bunk is empty. So is Bob's. Mikey won't turn up until sound check later, at the earliest, so it has to be Gerard.

For a while, Frank just lies there, listening to himself breathe, the sound of the world going by around him. It's not like he's never seen Gerard cry before, but he can't say he's ever felt like it may have been because of _him_. Gerard hates any kind of conflict. He hates anything he can't assimilate without the help of beer and pills, really. Frank can't just hear Gerard's sobs and do nothing, though; he isn't that kind of guy.

Gerard doesn't react when Frank's feet hit the floor. His back is twitching with the hitches of his lungs, curved out in a sharp arch against the edge of his bunk. He's still in last night's clothes, too.

"Hey," Frank says softly, poking Gerard lightly in the spine. "You look like an animal, all curled up."

"Christ," Gerard laughs hollowly through his sobs. "A dead spider."

Frank says, "Don't even," and, "Not enough legs," and, "Move over," before he's in there, lying on his side next to Gerard in his bunk. He'll remember it as blurry later - the transition between having Gerard's greasy red-black hair in his face and his tongue in his mouth, because it's unimportant and tedious, the amount of time he's spent being too aware of himself, his own body, shuffling elbows and knees around Gerard's personal space. He's used to that. He isn't used to this, kissing Gerard, feeling tears on his face that aren't his own.

"I just," Gerard whispers when he pulls back, hands up near Frank's chest, elbows tucked between them. "I just keep thinking about. About _shit_ , basically, and I can't stop. Mikey -"

"Mikey's fine," Frank lies, sort of. He's as fine as the rest of them, anyway.

Gerard sniffs, mouth dented with resignment, self-deprecation. "I remember, when I was like eight, so he was... five? God. I accidentally broke something, I don't even remember what, think we were jumping on the couches or something. And Mikey tried to say it was him, to our mom, yeah? But she wouldn't believe him, even though Mikes was really insisting on it. And in the end he just starts fucking _crying_ , right, and I just remember him saying, " _Why is it always Gerard?_ " I don't think he remembers."

"Brave of him to try take the fall from Donna," Frank says, heart thudding. "He is pretty brave, Gee."

"He's amazing," Gerard says. "And he's his own person, but I think he forgets. Or maybe I do. Because I'm a selfish, self-obsessed, tragic piece of shit."

The lack of venom in his voice makes Frank wince. Makes him press closer, get his hand on Gerard's ribs, back, arm sliding under his. "He's a Way. So are you. You know I--" And christ, this is going to be it, the moment Frank says it.

"Kiss me again," Gerard interrupts. It's like he's melting into Frank, dissolving under the pressure against his spine, letting Frank get their chests together, their knees, their mouths. Gerard tastes like yesterday's alcohol, like smoke and vomit, kinda, like one-too-many. It's awkward, tense, not sexy at all - and Frank can't think. It's like his breath is competing with his pulse and neither's going to win. Gerard pulls back suddenly when Frank tentatively cups his jaw, and he still can't.

" _Fuck_ ," Gerard huffs, hot against Frank's mouth, eyes shut. "M'sorry, I can't--" He's got his palms flat against Frank's chest, but Frank doesn't move his hand.

"Because of Bert?" _God_ , Frank can't fucking stand how he sounds, like he's jealous. He _is_ , but that isn't the point. That isn't even close to being _all_.

"Fuck," Gerard repeats on an exhale, eyebrows furrowed above his closed eyelids. "No. We're, he wouldn't--" He swallows thickly and Frank feels it under his hand, feels it in his gut, bright, angry-hot. And then all he's feeling is the flushed skin of Gerard's back, his crooked mouth, the awkward chafing of jeans that comes with getting your thigh pressed up between someone else's. Frank wants him bare, wants him to stop thinking, talking - too many, impossible things. But it seems like this is something he _can_ have, at least for now, and he's having it, okay, he's taking it.

"Frank, Frank," Gerard's saying in the pauses for breath, "You should, we, stop -"

" _No_ ," Frank says, too-harsh, and then he's got Gerard under him - stinking clothes rucked-up, legs spread in heavy jeans. Frank's almost dizzy, head dipped under the rungs of the bunk above. Gerard's panting, wide-eyed, face screwed up and blotchy, half-hard against Frank's palm when Frank goes searching for it, pressing through the denim.

Gerard squirms under it, twists away. "Please," he pleads, breathing hard, fingers knotted up in the sheets. "Just. Don't."

"Why?" Frank breathes back, and he sounds _gone_ , dangerous with lack of control. "Doesn't Bert ever do this for you?" He rubs, slowly, with the heel of his hand, and Gerard's breath whistles through his teeth. Frank gets the belt open easily - the amount of times he's had to undo it for Gerard when his fingers wouldn't cooperate - and there's no underwear because he ran out of clean clothes a week ago, didn't he, because these are things Frank knows.

Gerard gasps as Frank yanks his jeans down his thighs. He's shaking his head, eyes squeezed shut, but he isn't grabbing for Frank's hands, isn't fighting. He lets Frank push his shirt up out of the way, lets Frank shuffle down between his legs and whimpers like a fucking puppy when Frank gets his mouth on him. He's big, which Frank knew; tastes like hell, which he didn't - sweat and musk, and Frank's salivating. It's like nothing else, blowing Gerard, which makes sense, Frank thinks. Gerard's unlike anyone else.

He makes it messy. Licking slow and sloppy up Gerard's cock, tongue dragging deliberately over the crown, before he gets his lips around it and goes down, and down, until it's straining up against Gerard's stomach and Frank's jaw is dripping. He pulls back and gets an eyeful of Gerard's neck, throat taut and rippling. "Not gonna watch?" Frank asks, voice rough, and it could almost be teasing, in another time or place. "Am I not good enough for you, Gee?"

" _No_ ," Gerard chokes out, mouth agape at the bunk ceiling, "No, it's not--"

"S'okay." Frank watches his own hand move on Gerard's dick, pale inked fingers against flushed, slick skin. "I know I'm not Bert, but I can--"

"God, stop it!" Gerard wheezes desperately, head snapping up. His eyes are wide and dark, pupils blown in the dim. Something lurches in Frank's stomach, and he's surging up, kissing him hard and clumsy.

" _You_ stop it," he hisses in Gerard's scrunched-up face. "Stop fucking acting like we're not, like I don't -" He's breathing hard; angry, frustrated, turned on. "Do you do it on fucking purpose? Or are you genuinely that fucking _dumb_?"

Gerard shakes his head frantically, grabbing at Frank's shoulders as Frank goes back down, knees shaking around Frank's ears and breath coming in sobs and gasps. They're alone on the bus but Frank wouldn't care if they weren't; pulling and shoving until Gerard's pants are completely off and he can shoulder Gerard's soft pale thighs apart, fingers digging as hard into Gerard's skin as Gerard's are pulling at Frank's shirt, his hair. Gerard wants it and Frank knows he does, but he also knows that even if he didn't he's too turned on to care, and it's churning hotly in his gut, swirling amongst the post-booze nausea. He's going to feel guilty later, but Gerard's hips kick sharply and Frank chokes, loving it, can't fucking help it.

He pulls off, coughing, swiping a forearm over his wet face. Gerard's chest is heaving, fingers still tangled painfully in Frank's hair. "Frankie," he says roughly. His eyebrows are knotted up tight, teeth gritted, eyes wet. "Frankie."

"Stop it," Frank repeats, thin, wrecked. "Stop fucking going anywhere but here. You _deserve_ it, okay? You can fucking _have_ it."

Gerard's breath catches hard, like spit is clogging up in his throat. "Come here," he croaks, and Frank does, sick with relief. He kisses Gerard until he can't stand it anymore and has to get back between his thighs, and this time Gerard groans and pushes him down, hand in Frank's hair urging instead of holding on. He's helpless to it now, moaning, leaking; his back arches hard as he comes in Frank's mouth, hands scrabbling, hips jerking helplessly with the pulses. It's the most vulnerable Frank's ever seen him, and it's enough to get him off, too - rutting against his hand and coming in his pants like a fucking teenager. He'd feel pathetic if he weren't so busy feeling instantly, abruptly shitty.

He pulls off and swallows and leaves his face there - in Gerard's damp, soft belly. "M'sorry," he rasps, quietly.

For a long moment Gerard is silent, just breathing hard and petting clumsily at Frank's hair. "Me too."

"I -" Frank starts, has to pause to get a hold of himself. "I love you, you know. Not even-- we all do."

Gerard says nothing, this time, but he lets Frank stay where he is.

Where Frank will always be.


End file.
